


The Duel

by Aiur



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiur/pseuds/Aiur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The duel between Robb and Joffrey goes differently than anyone predicts.</p><p>An exploration of the large changes one small decision can make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no claim upon them. Should I be asked by GRRM or his legal representatives, I will remove this work.

Jon

 

Jon watched as his half-brother whacked at the plump and cushioned little prince with a glorified stick. Bran was giving far better than he got, but was clearly becoming exhausted trying to cause any real damage through the Prince Tommen’s ridiculous armor.

_Tommen might win by attrition alone._

His attention was drawn away from the fight when he felt Ghost shift away from his leg. He watched as his direwolf pup reared up on its haunches to sniff at his little sister’s face and nibble once on her ear before giving a similar greeting to its littermate, Nymeria. Even though they were only just over a month old, both of the direwolves were now as large as the smallest adult dogs kept in the kennels. Ghost might even be a little larger, despite having been the runt.

Jon gave his little sister a questioning look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”

Arya scrunched up her eyebrows and nose, as if upset at the thought that she should be anywhere other than where she wanted to be. “I wanted to see them fight.”

Jon smiled. As often as he had been scolded by Septa Mordane or his lord father about indulging Arya’s whims, he knew that he could never deny her a request. She was the Stark sibling that loved him the best, even after she found out what it meant to be a bastard. “Come here, then.”

Arya climbed up next to him on the window overlooking the practice yard from the covered bridge. Snow could still be seen in small piles in the areas of Winterfell that were enveloped in shadow for most of the day, seemingly ready to disappear until another summer snow replenished them. If anything, they had been growing on the whole over the past few months. _Winter is coming, after all._

At this point, both Bran and Prince Tommen were faltering. The swordsmanship was becoming sloppy even for children their age, and Bran’s red face puffed hard with each breath. Jon remembered fondly being that age, when his father had handed padded wooden swords to both him _and_ Robb, together. They were willing to tolerate any amount of rules and drills and padding as prescribed by Ser Rodrik, knowing that at the end of each day they could completely and utterly exhaust themselves in true combat. He was rather sad that Arya would never get to experience that joy for herself.

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon commented.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya retorted with no small amount of jealousy. Jon grinned as he reached across himself to tousle her hair.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him.

Jon grimaced, recalling his heated conversation with Ser Rodrik earlier this morning. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he told her. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.” Jon felt he could have given a certain young prince a good many bruises, given the opportunity. _The smug lout would deserve every one of them, too._

“Oh,” was all Arya could come up with in response. Jon watched her blush slightly, seemingly embarrassed to have brought up his bastardry. She was quite for a time.

“I could do just as good as Bran,” Arya said in a softer voice than before. “He’s only seven. I’m nine.”

Jon wanted to chuckle at Arya’s enthusiasm, but knew that it would only wound her pride. Instead he gave her a mock-critical look of appraisal. “You’re too skinny,” he told her. He grabbed at her tiny arm and squeezed it in a few places, pretending to measure its girth. Sighing as though finding serious fault, he told her in his most solemn voice, “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.”

Arya snatched her arm back and gave him a cold stare, clearly disappointed in his assessment. Jon quickly moved his hand to her hair again and gave it another shake. She seemed to understand and gave him a small smile in return. They turned their attention back to the increasingly dull match below.

Jon heard a mocking chuckle come from the direction of the crown prince’s entourage. The pompous ass was japing with the squires who seemed to follow him around like neglected dogs, always begging for whatever scrap of favor they could get. Even the knights surrounding him seemed more eager to win his approval than was respectable. Jon noticed that all of the knights were Lannister men. “You see prince Joffey?” Jon asked. “Look at the arms on his surcoat.”

Per pale, a crowned stag, black, on a golden field. Sinister, a lion, gold, on a crimson field. “The Lannisters are proud,” Jon told her. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya exclaimed.

Jon laughed lightly. _Of course you would think so. And bastards are as noble as true-born sons, if the world were fair._ “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”

“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” Arya laughed. “That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”

Jon shrugged. “Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.” _That is just how the world works._

Their conversation was interrupted by a startled cry from the training area. Prince Tommen had been knocked down by Bran, and was unable to right himself with all of his padding in place. As he struggled to get up, Bran stood above him with his training sword held high, ready to strike a finishing blow. Jon couldn’t help but grin, happy for his little brother. The men below began to laugh as well, before Ser Rodrik finally called the match and pulled the fat prince to his feet.

“Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor. Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?” Jon certainly hoped so. Robb had made the arrogant prince yield during the last bout, although Jon had to admit that the prince had at least some skill about him. _Not nearly so much as me. I was always the better sword than Robb, even if he could knock me off my horse four times out of five._

Robb stepped into the marked area designated for combat with a confident reply. “Gladly.”

Prince Joffrey slowly stepped out of the shaded area he had been sulking in with a bored look on his face. “This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik,” he spat, with an obvious sneer.

Theon Greyjoy laughed sharply at that with the few Winterfell men-at-arms who had stayed after the duel between the heirs had finished. “You are children,” he said with enough pompousness to match the prince himself. Jon could not help but notice that his remark insulted Robb as well.

Joffrey did not wait long to give his reply. “Robb may be a child. I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”

“You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb said. “Are you afraid?”

Prince Joffrey gave Robb another sneer. “Oh, terrified. You’re so much older.” This was met be yet another round of laughter from Joffrey’s men, squires and knights both. _Fourteen is much older than twelve, when you look at the muscle in Robb’s arms compared to Joffrey’s. Joff is just afraid to lose again in front of so many witnesses._

Jon frowned at the thought of Robb one day having to swear fealty to such an obnoxious craven. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” he whispered conspiratorially to his sister, who seemed to be just as caught up in the exchange as he was.

“What are you suggesting?” Ser Rodrik asked, his distress obvious as he tugged as his whiskers, a motion usually reserved for when Robb had been goaded to doing something dangerous or troublesome by Theon.

“Live steel.”

“Done,” Robb’s reply was instantaneous. “You’ll be sorry!”

Ser Rodrik held him back with a calming hand. “Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges.”

Joffrey looked ready to compromise, no doubt ready for an opportunity to win respect from his men once again. He had been quite the poor loser the first match. Instead, his most loyal hound stepped forward and voiced his opposition. “This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?”

“Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it,” was Ser Rodrik’s crisp response. He was bold, to talk down to a man so large as Sandor Clegane without a bit of fear in his voice.

“Are you training women here?” Clegane barked in reply.

“I am training _knights_ ,” Ser Rodrik returned, his tone as precise and even as ever. “They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age.”

The Hound kept his eyes on Ser Rodrik. “I was not aware that knights needed near so much coddling. It is no wonder the North is not known for its knights. South of the Neck, squires are given blades as young as eleven, if they are able to swing them. Can your young lord not yet swing a blade, or are you simply afraid for him, Ser?”

Robb’s face flushed a shade of red almost matching his auburn Tully hair. Jon recognized the combination of embarrassment and anger in his brother’s face that, if it were to occur during a sparring match, meant he would likely have several bruises to nurse the next day. Ser Rodrik, normally ever calm, turned a remarkable shade of puce clashing terribly with his grey doublet and white whiskers. His brow drew close before he bellowed his reply.

“Very well then, Ser. Blades it is. Lew, get two longswords from the armory. You need not concern yourself with their weight, our young prince and lord will prove more than able to wield them.”

Sandor Clegane smirked before simply stating “I’m no Ser.” He walked out of the arena as squires began outfitting the combatants with mailed shirts and other assorted bits of armor.

Jon grew worried. As much as the padding they often fought in weighed, it did not weigh near so much as mail and plate. _Rob is built thick, though. Certainly more so than the prince. He will not be overly slowed._

Next to him, Arya seemed to bubble with excitement. “The little shit is about to get what’s coming to him!”

Jon gave her his best scolding look. “I think so as well, although I would not repeat those words before any of the royal party – or your lady mother. Or our lord father. And don’t tell Sansa.” He could only imagine the ire of his father if he heard where Arya had learnt such words. If there was anything Jon wanted more than Arya’s happiness, it was his father’s continued approval. _Not all bastards are so lucky._

Once Robb and Prince Joffrey were appropriately armed and armored, Ser Rodrick recited the rules for fully armed combat to be followed in Winterfell’s walls. Any deviation would halt the match and bar both combatants from the training yard for the remainder of royal party’s visit. The victor would be decided by first blood, or if a party chose to yield. With that settled, the match began.

Jon watched Robb closely. Robb had calmed down considerably, his face now deadly serious as he and the prince began to circle each other. _Good work Stark, do not let your emotions get the best of you today._

Arya groaned next to him. “Not again. I thought this would be more exciting if it weren’t little boys.”

“Just wait, little sister. The excitement will come,” Jon whispered in reply.

Soon enough, it did.

Robb apparently became tired of waiting, and charged an already winded Joffrey with his sharp longsword held high. He brought it down in an arc, and did not seem perturbed when it was parried with some effort by the prince.

“Our brother has a sound strategy. He means to tire out Joff, to use his size to his advantage,” Jon explained to Arya.

“Joff can reach longer though. Robb still must be careful,” Arya surmised.

Joffrey eventually began returning attacks, although Robb was quick on his parries as well. Both were clearly straining, unused to the added weight of steel armor and swords.

The Lannister men cheered for their prince, while the men of Winterfell’s guard cheered on Robb. News of the fight had spread, and more observers from all banners made their way around the square marked in the dirt.

Finally, Robb found his mark. He had made a thrust, which Joffrey had attempted to parry, only to disengage and twist his blade underneath the counterstroke to place a small cut on Prince Joffrey’s left cheek.

Arya let out a whoop of excitement at the victory, and even Jon could not help but grin. The Winterfell men were cheering, and Robb turned toward them to accept their praise. _They love their future Lord already._

Arya noticed it first.

“What is the prince doing?”

Jon looked.

Jon saw the prince wipe his face, sneer still intact, and fling the bit of blood away into the dirt as he advanced on Robb’s turned back. Time seemed to slow as Joffrey drew back his longsword before thrusting it with both hands through the back of Robb Stark’s neck.

The whole courtyard silenced as Prince Joffrey spat “The penalty for drawing royal blood is death, Stark.”

Several things proceeded to happen at once, or as near as made no matter

Joffrey withdrew his sword from Robb’s neck, showering the ground beneath them in blood.

Robb’s expression only showed horrific pain, pain Jon could not imagine, before he fell to the ground like a boneless bag of slop. There were no gasps, only a sickening _thunk_ , and a quickly growing pool of blood as his body fidgeted with no purpose in the dirt.

Ser Rodrick drew his sword and charged at Prince Joffrey, death in his eyes, only to be met by the Hound and engaged in a true fight, not a mock duel of lordlings.

The other Lannister men surrounded Prince Joffrey and dashed in the direction of the south gate. The Winterfell guards and men-at-arms who had been watching the fight made off in a rush after them, except for Donnis who snatched Bran in one arm and Prince Tommen in the other and was quickly retreated into the armory with them.

Jon felt everything within him shatter. His best friend, his constant companion since he could remember, the half-brother who never made much of the distinction, lay twitching in the dirt.

Time sped up again as he heard the howl of a young direwolf. Nymeria joined in with her fledgling cry, along with the others around the castle. Ghost stood protectively in front of Jon, but did not make a sound. Grey Wind could be spotted running after the Lannister men, only for one of them to kick him savagely in the neck as they made progress towards the gate. Grey Wind, like his master, now lay unmoving on the ground.

Jon felt Arya slide off his lap, an angry wail on her lips as she started to run in the direction of the stairs down to the armory.

Before he could truly think, he ran after her and grabbed her around her stick-thin torso and held her tight, despite her small legs thrashing against him as she tried to escape.

“Let me go, stupid, let me go!” Arya screeched as only nine-year-old girls could. “I have to get a dagger and kill him! I have to kill him for Robb!”

Jon wanted to let her do it too, more than anything. He wanted to grab a sword and run beside her and impale as many Lannister men as it took to get to Joffrey. He wanted to stab Joffrey so many times that he would become an unrecognizable pincushion made of flesh and gore.

But Jon knew that things had changed, and not for the better. News would spread quickly throughout Winterfell that the heir was dead, betrayed by the crown prince. The royal entourage included some three-hundred men, soldiers and guards and free-riders and servants whose loyalties could no longer be trusted. Jon and Arya stood in a public place, somewhere anyone could find them and surround them.

 _I have to get Arya to safety_.

Unfortunately, Arya was still shouting and cursing and crying, so Jon turned her around with haste and crushed her head to his chest to smother her screams as he ran toward the great keep, Nymeria behind him and Ghost running ahead.

Arya’s personal rooms were not too far from where the covered bridge connected to the great keep, so he made his way there as fast as his feet would carry him. It had not been over a minute since Robb was stabbed when he burst through the door to Arya’s room, winded and with tears in his eyes and a screaming nine year old girl in his arms to be greeted by the shocked and piercing stares of both Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn Stark.

Both women began to scream at him at once, although only one used his name. Jon ignored them both as he threw Arya into the room and spun to slam the door shut and bar it from the inside, narrowly avoiding tangling his legs with the direwolf pups as they entered.

“ –ll me what in the seven hells you think you are doing!” Lady Stark shrieked like the bats of her mother’s house.

Jon was still trying to process all that had happened in his own head. And he knew that telling her of Robb’s fate himself would be the worst possible course of action in this moment. Instead he did the only thing he possibly could in that moment.

Jon’s knees gave out, and he sunk to the floor with his back against the thick wooden door and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no beta for this work. All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated. Updates will be roughly weekly.


	2. Chapter II

Theon

When Robb hit the dirt of the training yard, blood and gore and what might be a chunk of bone falling from his neck as Prince Joffrey withdrew his sword, Theon had a moment of clarity.

It was painful to watch Robb be slain. Robb had treated him better than any other Stark, or even any of their servants. Robb truly believed that Theon was his friend, and had talked of the great alliance they would have when they were both the lords of their houses. Theon knew that the world did not work this way, not truly, but the sentiment was still frustratingly endearing. Theon had taken Robb along on his less than noble adventures into the Winter Town to show Robb what it meant to enjoy life. Theon had bought him his first ale, shared with him his first whore, and generally engaged in debauchery he would never have imagined doing with his true brothers, cruel as they had been toward him. Jon Snow always did his best to ruin things, but for someone so young Robb Stark was the closest thing Theon had to kin for most of his life.

Even though Theon wanted to jump towards Joffrey and kill him with whatever he could grab on the way, as every other member of Winterfell’s household seemed to be attempting to do, he knew that there were much more important things that had to be done. Things that only he could do.

Theon jumped back from the training yard and ran towards the Great Keep, bounding up two or three steps at a time and through the open doors. He skidded across the warm stone floors as he turned through hallways and went up even more steps, stopping only briefly in his bedchamber to grab his personal bow and quiver and sword, and down a final hallway to reach the solar used by Lord Stark as his study.

Lord Stark was mercifully alone, with no sign of the King.

“Theon. What is the meaning of this?” As poorly behaved as Theon had been in his childhood upon first arriving at Winterfell, he had never intruded on Lord Stark in this manner. Surely that explained the look of shock on his face.

“Robb is dead! Murdered by Prince Joffrey, in cold blood!” he panted, trying to catch his breath. “We must secure the keep!”

Lord Stark’s face went through emotions Theon recognized as his own not two minutes before – shock, terrible anguish, and finally resignation. At last his face slid into an iciness more terrible than anything Theon had ever seen, before he said “Are you sure, Theon? You do not jest?”

Theon gave a solemn nod, his face squished between seriousness and pain.

“You will go to my personal quarters and fetch Ice. Alert any servants or women you see to lock themselves in their chambers, and any guards or men-at-arms to meet me in the Great Hall. If you see men-at-arms in Baratheon or Lannister livery, avoid them if you can but kill them if you must. Your survival is very important now, Theon. Now go, quickly!”

Theon gave a short nod, already half way out the door. Despite the pain of losing his only true friend, Theon felt more alive than he ever had before. Lord Stark, his captor, trusted Theon immediately and had assigned him to rally the men. This was his opportunity to prove that he was loyal, that he was good enough to be more than just a hostage. Free reign to kill the men who had attacked his captors-turned-adopted family just added to his excitement. The King and his Lannister brood had angered him the moment he saw them. How could this fat, drunken King have destroyed his family so utterly? Truly, it did not matter now – it was finally the time for his revenge.

He snatched Ice from its resting place above the mantle in Lord Stark’s rarely used chambers, sheath and all, and slung the monstrous thing across his back before running towards the Great Hall. Lord Stark would have taken the way across the small courtyard which held the sept, as it was the quickest, so Theon went along the east stairs and through the guard posts along the inner wall to allow the two of them to gather as many men as they could.

Theon found Jory Cassel, who dashed to the guardhouse across the north yard to rally the men there, and then he found Alyn and Desmond and Fat Tom and a dozen others all sounding the call to arms around him.

The squad Theon was now leading burst into the Great Hall from a side door to find the men Lord Stark had gathered already engaged with some Westerman knights that had been late breaking their fast. The men behind him had not been told of the exact situation, but they knew enough to defend their liege lord.

Together they made short work of the Westermen, Theon himself striking down the last with a savage blow to the neck from behind, lacking the finesse the prince had used to fell Robb but satisfying in its irony none the less. It was the first man Theon ever killed.

Theon pulled Ice from its sheath and knelt to present it before Lord Stark, who picked it up with two hands before planting the tip on the stone floor by his feet.

Lord Stark, his face still solemn and cold, spoke to them as they listened in absolute silence.

“My son and heir is dead at the hands of the crown prince. We have been betrayed. Our first priority is to protect the great keep. This responsibility I leave to you, Alyn, and twenty other men. Bar all of the entrances and exits except for those people on my direct business. Jory should be organizing the majority of the guards to secure the courtyards and other buildings. Desmond, you will direct all other guards you see to prioritize the rookery and stables. The rest of you will come with me to secure the guest house. Trust no men other than Starks.”

The directions were followed instantly and without question. _This is what it means to be a true lord_ , Theon thought. Many of the household guards were old men, veterans of either King Robert’s rebellion or his father’s rebellion or both, but the instant their lord told them to prepare for battle they transformed into hardened soldiers. _And some day men will follow me that way too, their own true lord._

Theon took his place at Lord Stark’s side, as a squire should. Although it had never been his official position, Theon was the one responsible for cleaning Lord Stark’s armor, maintaining his lower weapons, and tending to his horses after excursions – and Theon took this for the honor that it was. Hostages could be treated far worse, and many Northern lordlings would have gladly taken the position from Theon if Lord Stark found his work unsatisfactory. The more Lord Stark trusted Theon, the sooner he might be allowed to return to his true home and family at Pyke.

Lord Stark led his men out of the great hall, past the sept, and under a portcullis separating the inner yard from the courtyard where the fighting had all started. Most of the shouts seemed to be coming from elsewhere now. Theon grimaced as he jumped over the prone form of Ser Rodrick Cassel, who had been bisected near his middle.

Many of the doors in the guest house were already shut tight. Lord Stark sent four men each to the three entrances to the building, and divided the remaining twenty or so into parties of four to clear each room one by one.

Baratheon and Lannister maids were collected together into one of the larger rooms, clearly confused and terrified. Footmen were isolated in another, after being checked for weapons, and encouraged not to resist. Guards were usually found in small groups. Most knew better than to resist when Lord Stark himself told them that they could either surrender their posts or their lives. It seemed obvious from the cries outside, far more of “Winterfell!” and “For Robb!” than any other, which way the engagement was going. Even royal guards would not fight a hopeless battle.

Of course, encounters with the Kingsguard tended to be more violent. The first occurred outside the large apartments appointed to the royal family for the duration of their visit. Rounding the corner from the landing at the top of the stairs, access to the rest of the floor was blocked off by Ser Boros Blount and three other men-at-arms in Lannister colors. Ser Boros was broad enough to block the doorway on his own.

Lord Stark seemed ready to make some long-winded appeal for the knight to stand down, but did not get to start before Ser Boros let out a roar and charged past his own men to strike at the Warden of the North.

What happened then shocked Theon even more than what had happened to Robb.

Without flinching, Lord Stark stepped back and to his right, away from the overhand swing of the Kingsguard’s sword, while swinging Ice up from his left side across his body. Ser Boros continued on a few more steps, although his roar had turned into a more strangled sound. He fell to the ground, with blood spurting out from a gap in his plate that had once been covered in mail. The portly white knight tried to right himself, managing to roll onto his back before Fat Tom stabbed him through the visor with his spear, and Ser Boros Blount moved no more.

Lord Stark’s face remained impassive as he shifted his attention to the remaining Lannister men, who gaped in shock. Pressing the advantage, the Winterfell men dispatched them and made their way into the royal apartments. They lost a guard who might have been named Ethan to a glancing spear blow intended for his chest but wound up embedding itself under his gorget instead.

Theon wondered at Lord Stark’s display of martial prowess, having only heard stories that seemed too fantastic to be true. A young second-son-turned-lord defeating Ser Arthur Dayne in his prime _. Of course, I doubt most Kingsguard are idiotic enough to charge at a man with a greatsword as tall as himself and made of Valyrian steel._

Taking the left door from the solar put them in a short hallway, at the end of which were the Queen’s rooms. Jaime Lannister stood smirking in front of that door, fully armored for the first time in the duration of his visit to Winterfell. Theon had to admit, he looked to be the pinnacle of a greenlander knight in his white enamel and golden cape.

“Lord Stark, what brings you up to my sister’s apartments at this time of the morning? Surely you know that it is rude to interrupt a Queen while she rests.”

Lord Stark, Theon and the half-dozen or so guardsmen still in their party slowly approached the Kingslayer, coming to a stop suddenly when he flinched forward with his sword drawn. Both sides remained still, and Theon felt his heart pound as he watched Jaime size them up, continuing to exude confidence despite the odds against him.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, I have come to seize Queen Cersei as a hostage. She will be held safely until the capture of her son, Prince Joffrey, who has murdered my son and heir in cold blood. I promise you no harm will come to her, but you must understand that I cannot leave her free to roam my castle when her son has betrayed my family so. If you turn over your weapons, you may stay with her confined to house arrest under guard until this is sorted out.”

Even though Lord Stark made a ridiculous demand now, Theon noted that he had made every effort at diplomacy. Unfortunately, Jaime Lannister was neither stupid enough to charge at Lord Stark as Ser Blount had, nor trusting enough to take a man covered in the blood of his sworn brother at his word.

“You know I cannot do that, Lord Stark,” said the Kingslayer as his smile shifted from confident to jeering. “The Kingsguard must guard the royal family first and foremost. Despite anything my nephew might or might not have done, I cannot abandon my post. If you wish to detain my sweet sister, you will have to get through me.” With that he raised his sword into a two-handed stance and set his feet in a defensive posture, waiting for someone to come at him.

Lord Stark remained stoic as he made his reply. “I do not want to kill you, Ser Lannister, but I will remind you that of the four Kingsguard I have personally fought against, four are now dead.”

The Kingslayer’s forehead wrinkled for the slightest moment, before his face cleared and he stated to no one in particular “The things I do for love.” He came at Lord Stark steadily rather than with a blind charge. Two of the Winterfell guardsmen attempted to engage him with their spears, but despite their superior reach of their weapons both were soon bleeding out on the floor. Before the others could close in, Lord Stark himself attacked him with Ice.

The first blow was deflected by the Kingslayer, who then went on the attack. Lannister was clearly the better swordsman, and his shorter blade gave him more room to maneuver as well in the somewhat narrow hallway. Despite these advantages, Lord Stark did not give up ground. Ice was a lighter weapon, and the base of the blade at the pommel being as wide as Theon’s hand while splayed out allowed Lord Stark to block both slashes and thrusts with relative ease. While he could not get close with a single attack, the Lord of Winterfell’s defensive technique allowed him to hold his own.

Unfortunately, the wide swings of a greatsword as tall as a man made it nearly impossible for the remaining guards to assist Lord Stark in his duel. Theon tried to jump in twice, once having to lean back to dodge a strike from the Kingslayer and once having to retreat to avoid Lord Stark’s blade.

_This cannot go on forever. Someone must make this come to an end._

“Theon! Play to your strengths!” panted Lord Stark between breaths. Theon was surprised that he had the concentration to complete a sentence while still holding back the Kingslayer, but he understood the message well enough.

Theon dropped his sword and pulled his bow from his back. He knocked an arrow and took a deep breath as he drew it back to his cheek. Everyone in castle knew that Theon was the best archer in Winterfell, possibly in the North. He had soundly beat every visiting noble, lordling, merchant, or mercenary who had challenged him over the years. Lord Stark was entrusting his life to Theon and his marksmanship.

Both of these men were present when his father was forced to kneel before Robert Baratheon next to the corpses of his brothers. One had been his captor and had pulled him crying out of the arms of his wailing mother, never to see home again. The other acted in the name of the King, the only one alive that could pardon his family’s crimes and send him back.

Time seemed to slow around him as he let the arrow fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated.


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Last chapter was the culmination of the actions sequences, mostly. Stuff will still happen, but it will be more political. I hope it is still just as enjoyable.

Sandor

_Too much fucking snow for it to be fucking summer._

Sandor was absolutely miserable in this damned weather, and his charge certainly did not make things better. At least they would be out of the elements soon enough.

Joffrey’s decision to assert his princely rights could not have occurred at a worse time, or rather, in a worse location. Sandor had always figured the little shit would kill someone in training one day. He wasn’t a terrible swordsman, but Stark had the benefit of age and decent training. _If I knew I’d be freezing my balls off for three sennights, I never would have goaded that master-at-arms._

The fair-haired snatch had protested loudly, at first, when Sandor had to haul him out of that castle. He clearly had no idea that killing a lord’s heir in his own castle was a great way to get your guts impaled with all manner of objects, prince of the realm or no. Thankfully, the other dozen or so Lannister men with him had somehow shut him up long enough for them to get out of the castle and the collection hovels around it passing for a town. After stealing horses from a few skewered smallfolk at an inn, they road them hard to the east on farm roads and hunting trails until the first mount died. The men butchered it, divided up the meat, and continued at an only slightly slower pace.

They didn’t have a destination in mind, at first, but Sandor knew to avoid the King’s Road. There had been a sizable holdfast one day’s ride south, which meant a quick arrest by Stark men and a one week ride through a fucking miserable swamp if they somehow got around it. Going north would only keep them in this frozen shit-hole longer, and to the west was a thick wood that would surely slow them down, with no port city of note to lose their pursuers in a crowd.

Fortunately, staying away from people was not difficult. The North had the most _fucking nothing_ in the entire Seven Kingdoms. The first few days they hardly saw a soul, and the ones they did see thought nothing of them. The guards killed them anyway, so that they wouldn’t spread rumors of a dozen or so men in red coats-of-arms and a golden haired lordling fleeing through the countryside. Taking the crofter’s clothing made them look a little less suspicious, at least.

On the fourth day of hard riding, they hit a large river. It flowed south at a rush that made it too treacherous to attempt a crossing. The party was forced to turn south and follow it. Neither Sandor nor the prince could remember the names of any Northern rivers, but the size alone made it likely to lead to a port city, hopefully White Harbor. Even second sons of second generation landed knights in the Westerlands had heard of White Harbor, the fourth largest city in Westeros. Where there was a port, there would be smugglers, and hopefully their way out of this endless frozen hell.

The smallfolk were living in farming villages as they continued to follow the river, and became too numerous to kill for silence. Food became easier, as men could pull up turnips or beets from the farms they crossed, and there were now barns to shelter them from the increasingly frequent summer snows. The blonde cunt would complain about the conditions of his food and lodging, stating that a prince of the realm should be in no danger from his own smallfolk and that they would have to give up their homes to them if he ordered it, but none of the guards were foolish enough to let the prince try. They were desperate, but they weren’t fucking stupid. It was brought up again after Lewys was mauled to death by a bear when he wandered off to take a piss one night, but Sandor held firm.

Eventually they came to a drop off where the river water fell a sizable distance before setting off again. The cliff went on for the visible distance to the south and east, but a switch-back path wound its way down on the opposite bank. A bridge was set near enough to them, but a small holdfast stood on the far side with a gate that prevented passage. They would be asked for a toll, it seemed.

One of the men had some stags on him that he claimed to have won from a Northman at dice before they left Winterfell, so the toll was likely covered, but they knew they could not afford to be recognized. The men smeared their remaining livery with mud from further up the bank, and Sandor glowered and threatened spoiled ponce until he did the same. The brat pouted, but eventually gave in. He was forced to bury his expensive, fancy fucking helm behind a rock on the bank of the river, since it was easily the most recognizable thing in their party, but honestly he was glad to be rid of the blasted thing. A recognizable helm was good for striking fear into his opponents, but it did no better than a bucket in a true fight.

The keeper of the holdfast was a knight, anointed with the seven oils and all other nonsense, much to Sandor’s surprise and frustration. _The North has knights?_ The man was somewhat young, but fit and with dull brown hair and eyes he managed to look like the nobody that he was. He hailed them in the name of the Seven and bid their business at his crossing.

That was when the pale cretin decided to show that he actually had paid attention to at least some of what the perverted old Grand Maester had attempted to teach him of statecraft.

“We are men fleeing for our lives, Ser, and must get to White Harbor with all haste!” Joffrey said it as more of a command than a plea, and it was all Sandor could do not to clout him on the ear for making their identities so easy to discern.

“And who might you be, fleeing for your lives on my land? Have you disturbed the King’s peace, or are you in flight from such villainy?” replied the Ser. Sandor couldn’t believe their luck. The man had clearly not heard of the events at Winterfell, and better yet seemed to think he was a knight from a fucking song. _I never thought I would be thankful for one of these cunts, but we’ll be damned to the Others if he doesn’t help us._

The sallow, golden ninny proceeded to lie his frozen arse off. _If the spoiled little shit was good at anything, it was always lying_.

He wove an intricate story of being a guest at Winterfell, a minor lordling from the south who followed the King’s court to see the North and earn the favor of his grace. Apparently, the King’s party had found Winterfell to be full of savages who laid with the beasts of their house sigil, but the King stayed in his graciousness in order to complete his business. Joffrey claimed to have earned the wrath of the Stark lord upon besting his son in a duel, and was forced to flee when Lord Stark’s son tried to bring him into the godswood to sacrifice him to the Northern tree-gods in retaliation. These loyal men had smuggled him out at great peril, and they were seeking passage back south to relay to the court the betrayal of Ned Stark and to raise levies against him. The deceitful cunt even mourned for the King, likely captured and devoured by his traitorous bannerman.

Sandor was impressed that the lack-wit remembered that there was such a thing as a godswood at all.

The knight listened to the story with a look on his face that could only be described as indignation. Sandor almost thought they were discovered, but at the end of the tale swore on the Father and the Warrior that he would see them safe to White Harbor to see justice done.

After crossing his bridge, the knight kissed his plump and fearful wife goodbye and gave them fresh horses to continue their journey.

The ser had babbled on and on about his lands as they rode. His name was Ser Donnor Waterman, anointed in the Seven in the Seaside Sept in White Harbor for his service to Lord Wyman Manderly. House Manderly, he explained, was eternally mistrustful of his Stark liege due to their insistence on worshiping the Old Gods rather than the Seven, as was done by righteous men. Unlike their savage Northern neighbors, the Manderly men alone followed the Seven, knighted their land owners, and built cities rather than hovels. House Waterman had followed the Manderlys in their exile from the Reach in the time before Aegon the Conqueror had come with his dragons, and were forced to grudgingly swear fealty to the Starks to keep their heads. Ser Donnor claimed to be a minor cousin, his line coming from many times a second son until he was left with only the small keep they saw for his inheritance.

Sandor did not know _that_ much of Northern history, and would have to take his word for it. While Sandor knew better than to trust the man, he couldn’t see a better option. Joffrey was the only one among them high born enough to be given such an education, and he nodded his head and encouraged the sod, sympathizing with his plight over the barbaric Starks and promising to reward him highly when he brought the King’s army back to the North. The ser swore he could get them into White Harbor and under Lord Manderly’s protection until safe transportation with a true and loyal captain could be arranged.

_Maybe now that we have arrived at White Harbor, the Ser will shut his fucking mouth._

The city itself was not impressive to look at for anyone who had been to Kings Landing or Lannisport, but it was certainly larger than the backwater of Winter Town. Sandor could not tell if the city was white because of the stone it was built from, or the sea-bird shit that covered it, but the walls seemed sturdy enough should a siege come their way.

Ser Donnor secured temporary lodging for their horses at a stable a short distance outside the walls, before going up to a vendor’s stall and buying them all new cloaks. “To protect your identity from any Stark loyalists we might see,” he explained. “Think of it as a parting gift from me to commemorate our journey.”

Their escort hailed a guard at the gate in the city walls and had a few words with him before the man’s eyes widened and he went off running somewhere within White Harbor itself.

“I sent the man for his captain, Ser Marlon Manderly. The Starks have eyes even here in White Harbor, but he is a trustworthy man. I bid you to be inconspicuous while we get you your audience.” The Ser sat with them, waiting outside the city walls.

Eventually, the captain approached them. He was taller than average, but still shorter than Sandor by more than a head. His beard was grey with some streaks of brown remaining at the tips. The man scanned their party, eyes pausing on the pompous princeling and Sandor for short moments before continuing on. Their faces could not be seen under their hooded cloaks, but the size differences from the rest of the men must have been notable enough. Regardless, Sandor let his hand fall to his sword, should something go wrong.

“What business have you here, Ser Waterman?” the captain asked.

“Ser Marlon, I found these men fleeing through my lands. They have urgent business with Lord Manderly. I should like to accompany them to receive their audience, but we must use the utmost discretion.”

The somewhat portly man gave them another once over before addressing their knightly escort. “I understand, Ser. We will take them in through a side-entrance so as not to make a spectacle. I’m sure Lord Manderly will want to see them very soon.”

The captain led their party through a less busy gate before quickly turning down narrow streets and into small alleys. They passed few people, and those they did paid them no mind. _All the better. I’m still not convinced of this plan._

Sandor walked up to the blonde cunt’s side to make his final stand for sanity. He whispered as quietly as he could so as not to be overheard. “Your grace, are you certain you wish to trust these men? If we kill these two now, we can run to the docks and escape on the first vessel we happen upon. Any merchant will surely understand the circumstances and would no doubt have us on the way to King’s Landing before these two are missed.”

“This is why you should leave the thinking to me, you dirty _dog_ ,” he whispered back furiously. “You have heard what the knight said on our journey. Why flee when I can rescue my family from the Starks here and now with the help of Lord Manderly and his men?” The naïve jackass said with a sneer.

 _The cunt may be good at lying, but he has poor talent for guessing when one deceives him in turn._ “This is foolhardy. I’m going to end this farce myse-”

Before he could finish, a door further up the alley opened and men with the blue-green surcoats of House Manderly began storming out with their spears leveled.

Sandor had his ungrateful charge in one arm and his sword in the other in an instant, and turned around just in time to see spears erupt from the chests and throats of the other Lannister men-at-arms who had traveled all this way with them. Most of the men were screaming, but one unlucky bastard could only gurgle.

The cowardly ponce was shouting his bloody head off in outrage, demanding that Sandor kill them all, but he was no fool. Ten spears and two knights was too many even for him, especially while trying to guard the useless sack of shit at his side. _Worse than useless. I should not have listened to him. What were you thinking, you fucking lunk?_

Soon enough the guards had them encircled with spear-tips all around his throat, and when the captain held a sword to his back and demanded that he drop the boy, he could do little but comply. He heard more than saw his charge get pulled away behind him, the screams quickly muffled.

Then, he felt a hard blow to the back of his unprotected head and all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated.


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter takes place prior to the events in the previous one.

Robert

 

 

Robert awoke with a splitting headache, even worse than those usually plaguing him. It felt like an army was fighting all around him, the sound of steel clashing against steel and wood ringing in his ears.

He closed his eyes tight and felt around the bed for the servant girl he had bedded down with the night before. She was a skinny thing, compared to the girls in Kings Landing, but she fucked like a shadowcat in heat. Her curly brown hair had also been pleasing, allowing Robert to reminisce about lost loves and better days…

But the ringing continued, and shouting could be heard amongst it, and the servant girl was gone regardless. His head ringed often enough after getting drunk, but the shouts…

"Winterfell!"

"For Robb!"

His head was pounding now, and the screams of dying men filled his thoughts, so loud that he couldn't drown them out. Robert rolled over to get away from them, only to see Denys Arryn get stabbed threw the liver by the traitor Jon Connington while he cowered in a whorehouse. Silveraxe Fell was hacked to bits by Heartsbane, Randyll Tarly shouting for blood. Rhaegar Targaryen whispered a name he had no right to speak as his lifeblood poured out of a hole his chest.

Robert turned to his side and retched into the rushes. Even that did not stop the yelling.  _Master Rodrick must take his training yard duties seriously. Good for Ned. But still, a man must sleep._

"Trant! Get that bloody racket stop!" he shouted at the door, knowing that Ser Meryn had been assigned guard duty for last night's celebration.

But Trant did not reply.

"What the fuck is going on…" the king whispered to no one in particular. Seeing nothing for it, he got up and began dressing himself. The remains of his once fine clothing were scattered about the girl’s small cell. His smallclothes were stained with piss from the night's misadventures, and his breeches had shrunk once again, but eventually he got himself sorted enough to check outside and see why his Kingsguard was away from his post.

"The Others take you, Trant, if you passed out drunk again I'll – " Robert's threat was cut short by a sword against his neck through the barely opened door. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, man?"

Robert recognized his assailant as the Captain of the Guard at Winterfell, although the ruddy bastard's name escaped him. "You do know it means death to bare steel against your king, don't you? Ned will take your head himself!"

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," the young man replied. "Lord Stark's orders. I can't let you leave this room."

Robert stared at the man in disbelief. "Ned would never order such a ridiculous thing! We would prank each other as children, but he never took it this far! Now let me out of this room or I'll spare him the trouble and take your head myself!" Robert peered into the hallway. "And Trant! Where the fuck are you, anyway?" he shouted.

"Ser Meryn would not cooperate with us securing this building, Your Grace," the captain replied. "The man was not a very good guard anyway, if you ask me. Might be he could have stopped a little girl, but he was no match for Wyl."

Sure enough, Trant's red-bearded corpse was visible when the captain shifted slightly to expose him. His sword was nowhere in sight, nor his right forearm.  _Worthless arselick. Not fit to guard even my shit, apparently._

"Give me a hammer, then, and we will see if I am any better," Robert challenged.

"I don't think so, Your Grace. You will wait inside until Lord Stark tells me otherwise, and I doubt I'd be able to find a warhammer right now regardless," the man said with a shrug. "Too much commotion in the yard."

The screams of the dying were indeed now the predominant sound coming from outside, not just inside his head. Every weapon in the castle was likely in the hands of someone, being used to kill someone else.

"Gods man, what in the seven hells is happening here?" Robert asked dejectedly, feeling his head pound with every heartbeat as the scale of this calamity began to sink in. "Does Ned truly mean to rebel?"

"I don't know my lord's mind, Your Grace. Although I wouldn't hold it against him, with what your son did to Robb," the captain said evenly.

"What could my son have possibly done to cause all of this? He hasn't done  _anything_  in his entire life!" Robert protested. "The twit can barely wipe his own arse without his mother's help!"

"I don't know the details, but everyone agrees that he killed Robb Stark in cold blood."

Robert stood there in shock. Or at least, he wanted to be in shock. He truly did. But if he were honest with himself – which he could readily admit that he rarely was – he  _could_  see Joff doing such a thing, if the circumstances were right. The sick child had carved the kittens out of a pregnant cat's belly once, and it had been one of the few times he had seen his eldest son truly happy. And he was a petty creature, something he no doubt inherited from his cold bitch of a mother.

Given the right circumstances, Joffrey would definitely kill someone in cold blood, and would expect Robert to protect him from the consequences. It was really only a matter of time before it happened, although Robert never thought he would be stupid enough to kill such an important person.

"The seven gods damn it all," Robert breathed out.  _If that is true, Ned has every right to do this._  "If you can't get me my hammer, can you at least get me a drink?"

The captain gave him another small grin. "I'll see what we can spare, Your Grace."

An eternity and two skins of wine later, Robert found himself escorted by four Stark guards across a bloody training yard towards the Great Hall, still wearing only his wine-stained doublet and piss-stained breeches. Men in all manner of livery lay flopped down in the mud. Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister… and out of the corners of his eyes, he swore there were some Arryn and Tully and Martell and Targaryen too. After so many years, all battlefields still looked the same. One giant bloody fucking mess.

Dejected men were already cleaning it all up, hauling bodies like sacks of meat into piles by the outer walls. Women and serving girls wept and wailed, searching for their loved ones among the jumble. Bells rang in the distance as they looked for fathers and brothers and sons that they would never speak to again.

The doors were opened before him, and Robert saw Ned immediately, seated as he was on the old Stark throne on the raised dais at the head of the room. Laid at his feet on a pallet was the pale form of Robb Stark, eyes still wide in shock. The ghostly white skin made his red hair stand out all the more. Gore still covered his doublet, where it appeared to have seeped from a hole in his neck. Lady Catelyn cradled his head in her lap, tears running thick like blood down her face. Ned's expression was colder than the Wall itself.

Ned rarely got truly angry. The only times Robert could recall seeing Ned like this were when Jon Arryn told them of the fates of first Lyanna, and then his father and brother, and when he had stormed out of the throne room as Tywin presented the bodies of the dragonspawn before the Iron Throne. Some men got angry often, but were more bluster and wind than true threat, like Stannis. But when Ned got angry, people died and kingdoms fell. Arthur Dayne, if the stories were true, must have seen this face as he tried to keep Ned from his beloved sister.

"Gods, Ned, I –" he started to say, before a screech interrupted him.

" _Robert!_  Get him to release me this instant! Let him know the price of manhandling his betters!" Cersei cried in her shrill tones. She was bound to a chair below the dais on the left side of the hall, struggling against the two men who held her down.

"Shut up, woman!" he shouted back, uncaring of who heard him say such a thing. Cersei was a proud woman, but she did not know when to admit she was overpowered or in the wrong. "Can't you see the man's son is dead! What would you have done had it been Joff lying there?"

Whispers filled the hall. Tommen and Myrcella could be seen on the other side of the hall, also guarded by Stark men but thankfully not bound, weeping loudly. The remaining Stark children were noticeably absent, although Ned's bastard and Theon Greyjoy were nearby with live steel at their hips. The Kingslayer could be seen in a corner, chained and gagged, clutching a bloody bandage around his right wrist. The Imp was there as well, strangely stoic and silent.

At least Cersei had closed her mouth. "Can I see him, Ned? I need to pay my respects."

Ned nodded after a moment, still silent and frosty. Robert approached slowly, and got close enough to see the wound. The skin below Robb's chin looked like it had burst from the inside. It was a stab through the back.  _I sired a coward and a scoundrel. A back-stabber._

Robert sank to his knees and wept. He had fucked up so many things in his life, but never something like this. He knew that he was shit for a king, that's why he needed people like Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. But to raise his own son to be no better than a wildling or a Targaryen, a murderer…

" _Fuck_ , Ned… I am so sorry," he choked out between his sobs. He must have looked pathetic, a fat sod of a man on his knees and weeping, covered in his own waste. A pitiful sight for a king.

"I do not want apologies, Robert," Ned spoke, so softly he had to strain to hear him, although the room became deathly silent a moment latter. "I want an explanation. Why is my son dead?"

"Joffrey…" Robert stuttered out. "He had moments where the fury came on him, like the words of his house. That is all I can think of for why he did such a thing, truly." It sounded like the puny excuse it was, once he spoke it aloud.

"Joffrey is a murderer. He shared my bread and salt and even danced with my daughter not a night before. Then, before nearly one hundred people, he butchered my oldest son."

Ned left that statement hanging in the air. Robert respected the silence. There was nothing else to be done.

"There will be no betrothal, Robert. No uniting of our lines, now or ever," Ned declared, still calm and composed in his own terrifying way. "I will not be your Hand. Tommen and Myrcella will stay here, to be raised by me, as you are clearly unfit to be a father. Tyrion as well, as Lord Tywin's heir, to prevent any inappropriate retaliation. You may keep the Queen and her brother, but know that the first I hear of armies being mustered at Kings Landing or Lannisport I will not hesitate to take Myrcella's head."

Robert flinched as his daughter cried out, terrified.  _Poor girl… She should not have to witness this._

Ned continued. "Tommen will be kept alive, to inherit your crown. Joffrey will be stripped from the line of succession. You will make all of this official when you are released from here, with charters signed by the entire small council and the High Septon as well."

"And when Joffrey is found, you will give him the king's justice yourself before you leave Winterfell," Ned said. "In the old way."

"B-but… But Ned, I – He is my son," Robert sputtered out. "You will get your justice, but you cannot ask me to take my own son's head. None are so accursed as the kinslayer."

"I give out justice in the name of the King. Your name, Robert," Ned explained, as if to a simpleton. "If I did it, it would be in your name, and thus your sin all the same.  _Take responsibility_  for your own problems for once in your life, Robert!" he shouted. Ned never shouted, not ever.

Cersei chose that moment to make things worse, as she was wont. "You will never find my precious son, you filthy wildling!" she spat, making the crowd gasp. "Clegane will get him out of the North, and even if my spineless husband cowers at your blustering, my father never will. You will watch as your family is killed one by one around you, and your daughters made examples of by his men. The North will  _burn_  for this treachery!"

Lady Catelyn looked up for the first time. "And how will they escape in the first place? Our scouts are already searching for them, and letters have been sent to all of our bannermen. Lord Cerwyn will barricade the Kingsroad to the south, and even if they slip around they will never get through the Neck with Howland Reed searching for them. There are hundreds of miles of empty land in every direction, and even if he escapes from the riders and the hounds the summer snows will get him soon enough." Catelyn Stark could be just as terrifying as her husband when roused, it seemed.

The finality of their situation hit Robert like a bash to the head. She was right. Even if he wanted to escape, there was nowhere to run. The North was empty, almost, and there was little chance Joff would escape even with the best of escorts. Even though Robert would likely have to take own son's head, he had harbored some small hope that his eldest son might yet live. Perhaps to take the black, or to have some sense beaten into him once and for all. Try as he might, he could not wish for the death of his son.

"Fine Ned. I'll do it," Robert spoke up, trying his best to ignore his wife's outburst. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep your friendship. I need your support, Ned."

"You are not my friend, Robert," Ned said. He sounded stern, but his eyes looked sad. Like Lyanna's eyes had looked sometimes, when she thought no one was looking. "At this point, I'm not sure you ever were."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All mistakes are my own, although there were many more of them prior to the beta reading work of Gohans_Onna2. All criticism is appreciated. And yes, I gave Robert PTSD. I do not think this is necessarily canon, I'm merely showing it as a possible interpretation.
> 
> It is also worth pointing out that this is the second-to-last chapter of the story. From the beginning, I planned to cover only the immediate consequences of the duel. After the final chapter, there are many possible branches the story could take, but I'm not interested in writing a novel right now. This story is about the characters, more than anything else, and I will try to show you where they ended up.


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is more of an epilogue than a true chapter. Regardless, it is the ending. The sections are obviously not quite in chronological order. It is also pretty dark. You have been warned.

Eddard

 

The King and his family had been confined to the guest house for the last few weeks, their few surviving guards stripped of their weapons and kept under house arrest. Jaime Lannister had attempted to escape twice, once over the walls and once through a sewer. The second attempt had infected his hand, still recovering from the through-and-through shot by Theon Greyjoy that had saved his life in their duel. After Maester Luwin had taken it off to prevent the sickness from spreading to the blood, all of the fire had left the Kingslayer’s eyes.

The Imp had been more amicable, glum but cooperative so long as he was given new books every day. If the consequences of Joffrey’s betrayal or his status as a hostage bothered him, it was not overmuch. Even Robert took his confinement with some measure of grace, as surprising as that was. Robert might have had a temper hotter than a smoldering coal, but he freely admitted that his son and family were in the wrong. It almost made Ned respect him. Almost.

The worst part had been dealing with his children. Bran was no longer the happy little boy he once had been, climbing walls and laughing in the training yard. He was serious at all times, and his young opponents in the yard now complained of bruises and vicious strikes from the North’s new heir. Rickon did not understand what was happening, and would become inconsolable at random times for no apparent reason, often begging to see Robb.

His daughters were no better off; that is, they were arguably handling things worse. Sansa could not understand why her ‘gallant prince’ had done such a thing, and swore that there must have been some reasonable explanation. Ned would need to have a long discussion with her about the cruelties of the world before she flowered. Arya was mad with grief, begging to be taught how to fight so that she could find and kill Joffrey herself. Sometimes Ned found her muttering the traitor-prince’s name, over and over and over again, when he checked on her in her sleep. She had seen the whole thing, apparently, and was likely only safe due to timely intervention from Jon.

Catelyn had not yet accepted the role Jon had in keeping her safe during the chaos following Robb’s murder, cleverly locking them in Arya’s room. If anything, she seemed to blame him for not being the one who was murdered. She hadn’t smiled once since that day, and Ned did not dare come to her bed. Some things took time… and losing their firstborn might be something she never recovered from, not fully.

Ned himself still felt frazzled. Every corner he turned, he expected to see Robb’s smiling face. To no avail. His son would never smile again.

The Manderly party arrived relatively early in the morning, allowing the execution to be scheduled for that afternoon.

It ended up being a brief affair.

There was no trial, for many people had seen the events with their own eyes. Cersei protested, saying that a trial by combat would expose her son’s innocence. She was quiet when Ned pointed out that since he would represent his own accusation, Joffrey would have to champion himself as well. Word had spread that Ned had taken on Jaime Lannister and held his ground. Some even whispered that he defeated him on his own, like the fight with Arthur Dayne all over again.

“A trial by seven, then!” she had begged. “It is the most holy way of determining the truth of things. Surely you cannot deny such a sacred right!”

“Those are not my gods, Your Grace,” were Ned’s last words on the subject.

Men-at-arms from the Manderly party escorted Joffrey from his cage to the block, which rested on a platform erected in the middle of Winterfell’s training yard. Over the spot Robb had died.

Lord Manderly himself paid his respects to Ned and Catelyn, while his young maiden granddaughter insinuated herself between Jon and Bran, who were lined up nearby to bear witness. She smiled brightly as Joffrey was led passed her, and the resulting smell from the disgraced prince made Ned wonder what had occurred between them to make him so clearly terrified of the young maiden.

It was only once Joffrey was forced down to the chopping block with a boot in his back that Robert ascended the platform himself. He carried a greataxe, more similar to his usual hammer than a sword would have been, but likely to give a cleaner death. Joffrey whimpered when he heard the steps rattle under the king’s weight.

“I, Robert Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, have found you guilty of murder, and the breach of guest right. You are hereby stripped of all titles and claims, and are sentenced to die.” Tears flowed freely down Robert’s face as he said the words, barely restraining a sob. “Do you have any last words, my son?” he choked out.

“Please father… help me,” the twelve-year old boy whimpered, barely comprehensible through his tears.

“It will be alright, Joff,” Robert said quietly as he hefted the greataxe above his head, before bringing it down.

Joffrey Baratheon’s head was separated in a single blow and fell to the stage before bouncing to the ground. Blood squirted in pulses out of his neck, and his limbs twitched for some time after the gruesome deed.

Cersei screamed, and Jaime too. Robert said nothing, but the greataxe trembled in his grip and his normally ruddy face was blanched. Catelyn looked on with satisfaction in her eyes and stone in her heart, while Bran had watched the event with grim determination. Theon spat in the severed head’s gaping mouth. Jon merely looked somber.

“There Ned, your justice is done,” Robert spat, throwing the axe to the ground. “You have succeeded in making a kinslayer out of me. Now let me say goodbye to my remaining children and get out of this frozen fucking hell-hole.”

“Gladly,” was the only reply Ned could muster.

Vengeance was a terrible thing, but this was _justice_ , Ned told himself.

That night, he dreamed of a sobbing boy, and a frightened little girl, and a wailing babe. They were dead, children all.

 

Sandor

 

When he next woke up, Sandor found himself bound with rigging line, wrists and ankles lashed together and held taught in the air. He flailed about immediately, even before opening his eyes, but without his feet on solid ground he could not gain any leverage against his bindings.

“There is no need to struggle, Sandor Clegane,” said a gravelly voice that sounded more distinguished than a high-class whore. “Special accommodations had to be made for a man of your size, but White Harbor boasts shipwrights capable of far more impressive feats of engineering than fastening a man in place.”

Sandor opened his eyes to the voice, and was immediately confronted with the largest man he had ever seen. The man before him was nearly as wide as he was tall, with grey hair that might have once been blonde and a finely curled mustache. He dressed in a fancy wool doublet with ornate fastenings, the kind only a lord would wear. The man’s smile made him appear simple, but his eyes gleamed with the shrewdness of a predator. _Just the opposite of my brother_.

A second glance at his surroundings showed countless soldiers in the immediate area, weapons at the ready. He felt a distinct lack of sword at his hip, as well as the emptiness where normally a knife was kept hidden in his boot. His captors had been thorough.

His third look was the most surprising, however. Rather than finding himself within a white walled castle or building, he saw snow on the ground and dark grey stones making up the circular walls. A few scraggly and withered trees grew in the pathetic clearing, none-more bone-like or terrifying than the one in the center with white bark, red leaves, and a face frozen in rage. Its knotted limbs grew into and threw the cracks of its stony prison, fighting to escape but just as hopeless as Sandor realized he was.

“What the fuck do you want?” Sandor spat.

“Justice,” replied the fat man. “And while I wish I could deliver it myself, you are too dangerous to be bent over a block while waiting for one such as I to take your head.”

Whatever their escort ser what’s-his-name had said of the Lord Manderly to appease the daft cunt that was his sworn prince had clearly been a lie. _I shouldn’t have relied on that shit at all. I knew better, but I let myself be cowed_. The ser now stood beside the meaty lord, chin raised high. Just like every other knight, he was proud of using deceit and treachery to raise his standing with his lord. The fine Valyrian steel and dragonbone dagger the asinine prince had been given by the Master of Coin was now in _his_ hands, held against the little shit’s neck. The milksop was bound by silk with his hands in front of him and a silk gag was tied into his mouth. The stain on his leggings showed that the chicken-hearted prince was too terrified to even attempt to break free.

“I wasn’t the one who murdered your precious Stark boy, you fleshy arse,” Sandor found himself saying. He spat towards his captor for good measure.

“Of course not. If you had, that would not be my justice to claim. Prince Joffrey will meet his fate at the hands of a high power than mine,” the man said, wiping at his sweaty brow with a fine silk kerchief. “You did, however, cut down a personal friend of mine, Ser Rodrick Cassel.”

Sandor remembered the old fool, whiskered cheeks hot with rage as he charged. The man spoke as befit his station, the Master-at-Arms of a high lord, but that meant nothing in an actual fight. Sandor had taken his measure by his third swing, and cut him in half before he could make a fourth.

“He attacked a charge I was sworn to defend. If I hadn’t stopped him, the Queen or Lord Tywin would have had my head for it sooner or later.” That was the truth of things. Sandor disliked vows of all kinds, especially binding ones, but he knew what kind of deal he had made when he agreed to be the sword and shield of a prince. He was no fool.

“Our vows often conflict with one another. But you drew steel to defend a cold-blooded murderer, and killed a member of the castle that had welcomed you as a guest,” the round lord continued. “Men of the south might have forgotten, but guest right is sacred here in the North, and far older than any oath you might have sworn.”

The already quite guards hushed. A new figure had entered the cramped garden. A girl, barely flowered by the look of her, passed through the sole door into the space as guards parted before her. She wore a grey and white dress, and in her hands she carried a curved bronze dagger, unsheathed.

“Of course, blasphemy is also foul, Your Grace,” Manderly said as he turned toward the frightened, fair-haired sissy of a prince. “Ser Donnor first knew something was wrong with your story when you claimed Robb Stark himself was to sacrifice you. You see, even though we _do_ follow the seven rather than the old gods, it was before a weirwood tree that we swore our vows to the Starks a thousand years ago. We might not pray to these gods, but we know their ways. Old ways.”

The girl with flaxen hair wearing Stark colors continued towards him as he spun slowly in the air, dangling by his bound wrists and ankles. The blade of the knife shined sharp in her hand.

“It is only women who make sacrifices in sight of the old gods.”

The cunt’s wide eyes snapped to the maiden who now stood in front of Sandor with her teeth bared in a feral grin. The howling face of the weirwood behind her had fresh, blood-red sap running down its face in rivulets from its eyes.

“I was hoping to betroth my granddaughter Wylla to young Robb, before you cut him down. They were of an age, you see, and had been writing each other for some time. Wylla will not be the one to take justice for Robb Stark, but she will show you now how oaths are truly sworn before the old gods.” The rotund man directed his next words to his granddaughter. “Educate our prince, sweetling.”

“Gladly, grandpapa,” the girl said in a sing-song voice. Her smile widened, fang-like teeth glimmering as she held the dagger in front of her, and spoke.

“Centuries ago, words were spoken in this very godswood, before this very tree. House Manderly had found a protector in their flight, hearth and hall and harvest and haven all offered by House Stark as long as we remained their loyal retainers until the last winter froze us all in our sleep,” said the girl in her high, still child-like voice. “I, Wylla Manderly, reaffirm those vows here and now, in front of the weirwood tree of the Wolf’s Den, and swear by the old gods and the new that my family and I, and whatever children we may bear, will always be loyal to House Stark.” She appeared to be happy as she drew the knife ever higher, in plain view of that _fucking_ tree.

“Sandor Clegane, you have been found guilty in the eyes of gods and men of breaking the guest right of House Stark and murdering their loyal men, after being welcomed into their halls and sharing their food. You have abetted the escape of a traitor and a blackheart. You have been sentenced to death.” It all sounded so ridiculous, coming from her razor-sharp mouth. _Like a wolf’s…_ “Have you any last words?”

_I wish I had killed Gregor._

_I can’t believe I will be killed by a little girl._

_Fuck Joffrey Baratheon, and fuck Tywin Lannister too. Fuck Queen Cersei, with an iron plow._

“Fuck you all,” Sandor said, just before Wylla carved the knife through his belly. He stayed conscious long enough to hold back his screams as she pulled his intestines free and daintily draped them along the bone-white branches. The tree was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All mistakes are my own, there was no beta for this chapter. All criticism is appreciated. I hope you've enjoyed my story, even if it got a little dark there at the end. There are some pretty heavy themes here, which wasn't my intention when I began this project, but it was definitely the way the story wanted to go as I wrote it.
> 
> Yes, Wylla Manderly is a complete monster here. But then again, evil depends entirely on perspective, right? She is very loyal to the Starks, and that's what counts.
> 
> I realize that almost none of the sequelae this plot presented are truly resolved. This is mainly because the events herein would cause shockwaves across all of Westeros, and would have such dramatic effects on the plot of ASOIAF that I would need multiple books to cover the changes. I have neither the time nor the inclination to continue this AU at this time. This snip should be enough to give your imagination a launch point, though, and if anyone feels particularly inspired to write their own sequel, I wouldn't object. I'll only endorse it if it's good though. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have no beta for this work. All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated. Updates will be roughly weekly.


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